Wiley Coyote

All my dreams are of falling.
Even the ones that are not of falling
are of falling.
This doesn’t make sense
but I assure you it does.
Dreams of fear,
of failing,
of losing my grip,
plummeting dreams;
chasing dreams,
in which there is more forward and back
than up and down,
all the same,
falling, you see,
is not that different from being chased,
in one you’re running as fast as you can but getting nowhere,
hoping that pursuers won’t catch up,
even though you know they almost surely will,
and the other,
well you’re running but you’re not getting anywhere
and the ground is about to catch up with you,
inevitable,
like Wiley Coyote
the cliff, infinitely high, gravity implacable, the descent inveitable.